Whenever it’s warm out
She goes looking for flowers,
But only when it’s warm,
You see, cuffin season never really excited her much
so on those chilly nights
she’d stare off into her window
far enough to see her reflection,
catch that glimpse then
press her finger to cold glass
and wipe away the frosty vision of her face.
But see when it’s warm out
She wears a bit less clothes
And some brighter colors than the cold days
And she goes out looking for flowers.
Anything she can get her hands on really
Daffodils and dandelions will get her wildin
She’ll get giddy and silly for a handful of lilies.
If she catch a cold?
Oh no problem
Chrysanthemums will get rid of the mumps
And for her, a handful of gold tulips will be a reliever for anything from a cough to yellow fever.
She loves searching for all the finest flowers in the concrete jungle
Any and everything she can find,
Except for roses.
I saw this one guy bring her this gorgeous rose one time.
It had long flowing petals that looked like love.
I was yards away
and it smelled like romance
Damn thing even sang,
Had a song that sounded like saxophones and ivory keys.
She gave that flower a long look,
Said, “No thank you,” and walked away.
I asked her why and here’s what she said,.
“One thing I don’t need is anymore roses
quite frankly I’m tired of them
sick and tired of them
tired of those green stems
tired of that smell
I go around this city and pick all these flowers
tulips, lilies, chrysanthemums, dandelions, and daffodils.
I do this shit all spring and then by the time summer comes the only thing left is them damn roses.
All big and shiny,
Water dripping off the petals like tears dripping right on down to the thorns.
I’m tired of them damn thorns.
Tried to pick em from any angle and still pricked my fingers.
You think a rose still looks as pretty with blood and tears on the stems?
It doesn’t. Its not pretty at all.
Its not beautiful
Or any of those things it’s supposed to be
And don’t get me started on them fucking petals.
I used to be one of those girls,
You know the type,
Picking the petals off roses
He loves me
He loves me not
He loves me
He loves me not
He loves me…
Well every rose I got ended in an odd number of petals
And it always ended in he loves me not.
Maybe I should’ve started thinking that he doesn’t love me
That he’ll never love me
That he hates me
Because that’s what I was left with.
I got dead roses in vases on my window sill,
They dried up all my tears I put in the bottom to water it and still died.
I thought salt water helps sometimes.
Got brown petals stuck in my bed sheets
That crunch keeps me awake at night I hear it when my heart beats.
Tossing and turning rolling from
petal to petal
flower to flower
and it’s always so dry
petals and thorns scratching my skin like barbed wire.
I thought roses were supposed to be soft and tender,
The kind to wrap you inside and make you FEEL
Make you feel like…
Make you feel like something!
Like someone real
Like more than just a someone to throw roses at
Roses that will die in a time
They can keep their roses.
I don’t want them anymore.
A girl wants roses thrown at her feet.
A woman wants to be the flower.”